


boys go crazy over you

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: thunder [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, British Singers RPF, Kingsman (Movies) RPF, Take That (Band)
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, Filming, Kingsman days, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28877925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: Sex with men was never Gary’s thing—no matter how hard old Nige tried to get him into it, back in the day—but Rob, really, was the exception that confirmed the rule.Or, well, so Gary thought.
Relationships: Gary Barlow/Robbie Williams, Taron Egerton/Colin Firth, Taron Egerton/Gary Barlow
Series: thunder [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117814
Comments: 26
Kudos: 19





	1. let in the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night, back home, he tells Dawn he winked at a 24-year-old. The old girl just scoffs and adjusts her reading glasses. “Course you did, pet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been in the works for quite some time. 
> 
> Why today, you ask? Well, it's the fateful day of the Captain's 50th birthday, and it seemed pretty apt. This whole thing bears witness to my undying love for Gary Barlow, and my newer but ever intense passion for the world's brightest star, our Golden Boy, Taron Egerton.
> 
> This is to pay off a few promises made during the course of the month of December (click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826045/chapters/68123386) if you missed them), but specifically [in this chapter right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826045/chapters/68382808).
> 
> And, last but not least, **[soft_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science/pseuds/soft_science)** , this is for you. For that thing, that one time. You know.  
> You're amazing. You're my rock. Dare I say you're... _incredible_?
> 
> ❤

Rob. The last time it happened, it was with Rob.

Rob was 36, fragile like blown glass, and, if one believed British tabloids, Gary’s ‘former worst enemy’. 

Rob was already seeing Ayda, but Ayda understood: it wasn’t just sex, it was atonement. Redemption. Love, blooming out of hate. Hate that, really, wasn't ever even there in the first place. That's what he told Rob, after the first time, and after the few times that followed. 

“I never hated you.”

That’s what Gary still says to him (mostly over the phone, now), whenever Rob makes a self-deprecating joke that Gary knows is rooted in his crippling anxiety. It’s still there, even after all these years. Hiding between the lines. Lurking in the shadows. Threatening to break him.

Rob is great, and he’s destructive. A force to be reckoned with. A thunderstorm after a full day of clear skies and sweltering heat. What happened during the _Progress_ era between them was a way to make peace with the past, shuffle off all the bitterness and get to know each other all over again.

Sex with men was never Gary’s thing—no matter how hard old Nige tried to get him into it, back in the day—but Rob, really, was the exception that confirmed the rule. 

Or, well, so Gary thought.

*

The first time Gary hears the name Taron Egerton is when Matthew Vaughn phones him up, asking for a favour. 

We desperately want you fellas on board, Matthew says. New spy movie, he says. Killer cast, he says—Colin Firth, Sam Jackson, Sir Michael Caine and some fresh-faced Welsh lad as the lead, someone whom Matthew describes as ‘the most promising young thing I’ve ever auditioned’. And yes, dammit, one day on set is enough to confirm that Matthew wasn't exaggerating in the slightest about the latter. 

*

**_2014_ **

Take That on a movie set is a rare and frankly fascinating phenomenon to observe at the best of times— _Stardust_ , another one of Matthew’s gems, was a field day and a half for all of them, Jay included—but for some reason, everything today seems to be somehow heightened, and for the longest time Gary can’t really put his finger on why. (Until, of course, he understands.)

Mark spends half his time gawking at Colin, and the other half playing with prop spy gadgets. Howard rarely stops bending Matthew’s ear about the movie score and special effects. And Gary, for his part, is just _enthralled_ by the scene that is currently being filmed: some mildly ridiculous action sequence that sees a group of people (Taron, the ‘promising young thing’ himself, included) stuck in a water tank, needing to figure out how to escape.

Escape, thankfully, they do—and Gary bets it’ll make for a cracker _ooooh_ moment at the pictures, too. And with them, Gary still hasn't figured out how or why, escape also Gary's serious monogamy/bi-but-only-for-Robbie-Williams state of mind. 

_Fuck_ , is Gary’s first thought when shaking Taron Egerton’s hand.

*

The first time Gary shakes Taron Egerton’s hand, Taron is 24, high on adrenaline, and absolutely drenched in pool water. Well, not exactly: he is wrapped in a giant, soft-looking towel and holding a scalding brew—but Gary did see him, briefly, stepping out of the tank and dripping all over, and that sparked _something_ inside him. Something he hasn’t felt since seeing Rob again, after all those years, before they even had the chance to put everything right.

The lad looks nervous, when his still slightly wet hand clasps Gary’s. His chest is still heaving from the effort of being stuck underwater for God knows how long, and his eyes are bright with happiness, and the curve of his neck peeking out of the top of the towel around his shoulders, they are just—

“I can’t believe it,” is what Taron says to him, after their eyes meet and their hands lock. “So nice to meet you, sir.”

While registering the excessively reverential look in Taron’s eyes and what Taron has just called him, Gary sees someone move in his peripheral: he turns slightly to catch Howard, who’s strolling past them, raising an eyebrow at him and mouthing _sir_ with a scandalised expression on his face. 

_For God’s sake, Doug._

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Gary replies, shaking Taron’s hand more vigorously while working on ignoring Howard’s ribbing. “But please, call me Gary, eh?” he says, with a half-smile and a wink. Trying to be charming, for some reason.

(That night, back home, he tells Dawn he winked at a 24-year-old. The old girl just scoffs and adjusts her reading glasses. “Course you did, pet.”)

Taron’s face lights up, at that. And Gary can pinpoint it as a moment he’ll remember for years to come. The sheer amazement and joy in that smile. “Alright, then. Gary. I’m Taron,” he says, in a bolder tone, his free hand thoughtlessly touching the left side of his own chest.

“Oh, I know,” Gary replies, somehow still feeling smooth and trying not to look at the one droplet of water trickling from Taron’s eyebrow onto his sharp cheekbone, all the way down his cheek and that jawline that looked like it’d been carved from Carrara marble. “You’re the big star here! Matthew won’t shut up about you, mate. Brilliant stuff you’ve done, back there.” He gestures towards the tank, but Taron doesn’t follow the direction of his hand, favouring to fix those doe eyes on him instead. “Incredible. Well done.”

Taron blushes and lowers his gaze, wrapping his towel around himself a bit better, then he looks up at Gary again. Still smiling. Still looking a tad awestruck. _Truly powerful stuff_ , Gary thinks. 

“Thanks. Bloody hard, that was. I hope they got it, this time. I told Matthew, I’m not going in a fourth time.”

“Of course you’re not!” chips in someone, somewhere to Gary’s right. Gary, startled, turns slightly to confirm his suspicions that yes, it is indeed Academy Award Winner Colin Firth—with an extremely ecstatic-looking Mark Owen in tow—passing comment on Taron’s performance. “Matt and I have just watched the dailies. He’s impressed. He says it’s still not as perfect as he’d liked it to be; I told him to fuck off, that what he has is _great_ , and that he’s definitely not putting you back in there. We’ve got it, this time. Bravo.”

Gary observes Taron’s face, then, and sees it change completely: it’s like Taron’s lit up from the inside, beaming up at Colin, bright and beautiful, revelling in Colin’s words. It’s a kind of infectious, all-consuming happiness that Gary can’t help but suspect has nothing to do with a workplace achievement. It doesn’t _look_ like that, at least. It looks more like… What does one look like, when they get complimented by the person they’re pining for? There must be a word for that. Take That have had enough empty hits about young love—and many of them have Gary’s name written all over them, music, lyrics, the works—for Gary to know what the word is, surely. But right now, looking between Taron and Colin exchanging seemingly surface-level compliments and benevolent bants, Gary can’t think of it.

“Thanks, Col.” Despite how cold he looks, Taron’s cheeks definitely flush up a tad. “Think I might deserve a treat after this.” Taron then turns to face Gary, Mark and Howard, and smirks. “Gentlemen, have you had any lunch yet? I seem to recall reading about meat pies on the menu for today.”

Oh, damn. Pies. Gary’s ultimate weakness. He can’t possibly—

But that would _please_ Taron, clearly. And maybe Gary could get to witness that light again. Bask in it for a little longer. 

But Gary hasn’t had a proper pie in… Well. Since before the Hemsleys came into his life, Jesus Christ. 

He turns to Mark, and Mark looks up at him in that nonchalant, _I can see your brain overworking, Gaz, stop it right now_ kind of way, and doesn’t find it in him to open his mouth and try and politely refuse the invitation.

“We’d be honoured,” he says, instead. And, immediately, there it is. The smile, the twinkle in Taron’s eyes, the light. Gary hasn’t been around that kind of energy since… Well. Since Rob in 2009, innit. 

_Bugger_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've liked this, folks. It's a new POV for me, and yet one that I feel like I know by heart. 
> 
> Admin-wise, like I said, this was written a while back, and I'm going through a spell of the old writer's block, so... updates will come when they'll come. Be sure to subscribe if you're interested in reading more ;)
> 
> Love,
> 
> C x


	2. won't stop till I'm high above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bloody hell,” Matthew says, under his breath. “Gaz, he’s better than _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by niche demand, here's another installment of this little story.
> 
> Please be advised that this—[Gary writing a song for Taron](https://open.spotify.com/track/4C3Xzd8wUP7w9waVjQqR7d?si=-Ksk-15aSOWvVVmJFaki3g)—is one of my favourite things ever to have happened in the history of mankind. I have [written about it before](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719562), and I will probably continue to write about forever, in some form or other.

**_October 2015. Gary's house in Kensington, London._ **

“You sure you gonna be ready in five minutes, Ryno?” Gary shouts from the corridor in direction of the studio. He’s walking away, going to open the front door and leaving Ryan to work on some _very last-minute_ tweaks to the track, that he’s insisting on making. Because that’s just old Ryno, isn’t it—a perfectionist through and through.

“For the last time, Gaz: yes, I’m sure. Go with God, I’ll be in here,” comes Ryan’s slightly unnerved reply. 

Fine, Gary has definitely deserved that tone. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t bloody nervous about today. Sure, it’s been an absolute joyride, to work on all this Eighties-inspired music for _Eddie the Eagle_ —as is every time he’s in touch with Matthew about a movie project, really—but today is so much different than nerding out with Ryan about the mad skills of that one guy who pre-recorded them a ton of bases for the DX7, or bouncing around lyrics ideas with Mark. 

No, this is…

A couple of months back, over breakfast at some posh place in Chelsea, Matthew mentioned to Gary that Taron sings—quite well, actually. (Not professionally or anything, but, as most Welsh people tend to, he apparently just ‘has it in him’.) And Gary, after thinking about the implications of it for approximately ten seconds, suggested he’d write a song for Taron and Hugh Jackman to sing together. 

“For the end credits? Think he can pull it off?” 

Matthew grinned at him over the rim of his teacup, his glasses steaming up a tad. “I’ll make sure he will.”

When Gary opens the door on a cold early January morning, he can’t help but notice that the look in Matthew’s eyes is exactly the same. Also, most importantly, that Taron, and the light—that _light_ —is back.

“Morning, fellas,” he says, greeting Matthew, Taron and Dexter Fletcher with a big grin and a pat on their respective backs. “Hope the traffic wasn’t too bad.”

“Alright, Gaz,” Matthew says, tipping his signature cap as he walks past Gary. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Gary,” Dexter says, holding a hand out and giving him a big smile.

“And you, Dexter. Heard a lot about you.”

“Only bad things, I bet,” Dexter jokes.

“Oh yeah, yeah.” Gary rolls his eyes comically. “Terrible, mate.”

That makes Dexter laugh as he walks in behind Matthew, leaving Gary to greet—

“Hey, Gary.” Taron looks elated, buzzing, and extremely jittery. “Always a pleasure.”

“You know the pleasure’s all mine, Taron.” Gary dares a wink as he lets both men in and closes the door behind them. He catches Dawn’s eye as she glides into the corridor to say hi to Gary’s directors-and-movie-star friends: he can see her knowing smirk, and he feels like an absolute tool.

As the subsequent animated five-way conversation steers into Dawn inquiring about Claudia and the kids, Gary can see Taron disconnecting a bit. His gaze has shifted from the huddle of people towards the corridor that leads to the studio; its walls are littered with framed gold and platinum records, awards, photos of Take That now and then, and a miniature poster from each movie Take That have worked on for Matthew so far— _Stardust_ , _X-Men_ and, of course, _Kingsman_. Taron walks towards it, smiling up at the wall, and Gary follows closely behind. (Dawn is now making dinner plans—she never usually needs him for this kind of stuff.)

“Must admit: I’m extremely honoured to be part of the hall of fame,” Taron says, still looking at the wall and sounding like he’s talking more to himself than anybody else.

Gary smiles, and tries not to stare. “Of course. We’re all really proud of that one.” He’s about to add something about Emily having a massive crush on him ever since seeing him play Eggsy on the big screen, but at the last minute he decides against it. Having a daughter who’s old enough to have a crush on Taron makes him feel… Well, _old_ is the right word for it, isn’t it. 

Taron turns slightly to meet his gaze and just beams. “Thanks.” He bites the inside of his lip and shifts from foot to foot.

Gary raises an eyebrow. “Are you alright, mate?”

“Yeah, just… Nervous, I suppose. I’ve never actually recorded any music before.”

“Goodness—am I popping your cherry today, then?” Gary winks again, _need to stop that, stat_ , and revels in the smug knowledge that he’ll be the first man to have Taron Egerton in a vocal booth. Which, phrased like that, sounds almost as bad as the cherry-popping comment he’s just made out loud. Great.

Taron blushes slightly and tilts his head shily. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

“Please, don’t worry. It’s really not rocket science. Plus, a little bird told me about your golden pipes, so… You should be more than alright, I promise.”

*

“This beat is absolutely sick,” Taron declares, as soon as he’s done listening to the demo that Gary has put together to give him a sense of how his vocals should sound over Hugh’s already polished recording that he’s received a few days back, and that Ryan has already had the time to play with a little bit. “Just… sick.” Taron smiles nervously and looks between Matthew and Dexter, then Gary and Ryan. Gary can see him thrumming with excitement, and it’s one of the most endearing spectacles he’s ever witnessed; it almost reminds him of being a judge on the _X Factor_ —except, on the _X Factor_ , no-one ever was this enthusiastic or looked like they were ready to work this hard.

“OMD did a brilliant job, indeed,” Gary replies, successfully dismissing a compliment, in a way he’s not used to doing, ever. “And Mr. Jackman, of course. Glad you like it.” He throws a glance at Ryan and rubs his hands together. “Right, then. Shall we crack on?”

“Yeah, be great. I’m afraid we haven’t got all day, Taron,” Matthew says, nodding towards the vocal booth. “Those reshoots, remember? Go on. Off you pop.”

Gary sees a look in Matthew’s eyes that he doesn’t remember seeing when they first met, all those years ago. It’s a look he’s only just seen when Matthew is with Taron. Like he’s constantly testing Taron, somehow. A reminder of how the hierarchy works, or… Who knows. And the look that Taron returns, well. It’s something he recognises quite well, actually, if he digs deep enough. It’s the same he used to see on Howard, Robbie, Jason and Mark’s faces every time Nigel was around. Telling them how this, this and this should be. Leaving no room for discussion.

Ryan helps Taron settle into the vocal booth, and lets him familiarise himself with the lyrics, the rhythm, and the flow of the words for a while. Immediately, it’s clear that Taron is incredibly concentrated. He’s trying so hard; he looks completely enthralled, and for a good while Gary sees a version of Mark in there. Mark in his most serious form—not the creative chaotic monster he usually is at any other given time. Mark when he’s trying to get something right the first time round: that’s who Taron looks like at the moment.

At some point, he raises a thumb. Gary grins and presses on the intercom button. “We good to go, big boy?”

“Absolutely. Just one last question, if I may.”

“Fire away!”

“D’you want me to do it in, like, an Eighties style?”

Gary opens his mouth to answer, then closes it. _An Eighties style._ He raises an eyebrow and looks towards Ryan, who simply shrugs, as if to say _no idea, mate_ , and he turns back to Taron, failing to stifle a chuckle. In the meantime, Taron’s face has gone through several shades of pink and settled on deep crimson. _Fucking adorable_. “...okay, yep,” he replies. “Do that, mate. ‘Eighties style’ sounds great. Hey, Taron?” 

“Mmh?” 

“You got this, mate. Relax, eh?”

Taron gives him a nervous nod and a small smile. “Thanks, Gary. I’ll try.”

* 

Gary often says, (half-)jokingly, that he’s always right. He’s not, not really, but it is still fun to pretend he is. And then, sometimes, when he actually turns out to be, it’s even more satisfying.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew says, under his breath. “Gaz, he’s better than _you_.”

(And Gary thinks, in that moment, that he might have been wrong. About Matthew, that is. Maybe Matthew isn’t an evil Manager, after all. Maybe he actually _loves_ Taron, and is only stern with him because he wants to see him get better and better.)

Half lost in thought, Gary takes a couple of seconds before turning his attention away from Taron, who’s still crooning away to the last chorus. He sounds—

He’s perfect. There’s really no other word for it.

“Yeah,” Gary agrees, turning in his chair to face Matthew and Dexter. “Yeah, he bloody is. Ever thought about a musical, for him?”

The look that Matthew and Dexter exchange after his comment speaks a million words. It’s a look of industry complicity. It’s knowing something that nobody else, probably not even Taron, knows yet.

_The best is yet to come, eh?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're a Take That fan and don't know who Ryno is: first of all, shame on you (joking). No but seriously, it's Ryan Carline, Gary's once tea boy back in Cheshire who went on to become his producer-life partner in his solo shenanigans. He produced the entirety of _Music Played By Humans_ himself, for one. He's a good egg, for sure—even if he did put stickers on the back of Gary's hand painted pedals, once upon a time. (For that reference, please [click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9RINmpP6Pk). What an absolute NERD.)
> 
> In case you're unfamiliar with the hilarious and rather mortifying 'Eighties style' comment from Taron, I urge you to watch [this delightful three-way interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p5sDsqOI0_c) with Dex, Hugh and Taron. The topical bit is around minute 14:30. Enjoy ;)
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx


	3. although I search myself, it's always someone else I see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of a sudden, he’s back.  
> There (at Abbey Road, recording for Giles and Dex).  
> There (on set, wearing a Versace shirt and crying over a piano).  
> And there (at the Greek, in a stripey white suit and a blue shirt, belting out high notes and battling it out with Elton John).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> My brain has been extra scattered lately. I wrote this a while back and I'm finally sharing it, because I still love it a lot and I want to get to the bottom of this—the pairing that I never imagined I'd write for, not even in my wildest dreams, and the one that Barlow himself served me on a silver platter. (More on this in the end notes).
> 
> Happy reading!

**_August 6, 2020. Aberystwyth, Wales._ **

“Nel, I swear to God, if you poop on the carpet one more time—”

Taron’s doorbell rings, and he feels himself freeze. He’s on his hands and knees, wearing a dirty hoodie and possibly the oldest pair of trackies he owns, trying to scrub off the evidence of one of the many crimes that his new, blonde, shaggy rescue dog with an underbite has committed in the short time she’s been with him… and his doorbell just rang. To add insult to injury, moreover, he’s pretty sure that on the other side of his front door is notorious national treasure and OBE Gary Barlow, who’s more or less moved heaven and earth to get himself to Aber in the midst of a global pandemic just to record a song with him. And he’s on all fours cleaning dog shit off his floor, looking like a vagrant, and possibly smelling a bit, too. 

Worst thing is, he’d planned everything so well. (He would not have had it any other way, either: it’s the only way he knows how to function. Cope.) Two COVID tests in the span of five days (both negative, duh). Not left the house since—groceries delivered to his front door, dog let out in the back garden, windows regularly opened to change the air inside. His whole house scrubbed clean from top to bottom, all handles shining and everything smelling faintly of disinfectant. An entire outfit picked out, casual but still eye-catching in a smart kind of way: a polo shirt, light trousers (shorts are for hanging by the beach, not for receiving international popstars in one’s lovely but humble second residence). His hair cut as best as he knows how, still rather short from two clean shaves during lockdown but slowly coming in and looking healthy and frankly rather good, despite the hairline being what it is since letting them do all that stuff to it for that one role, that one time. He’d even planned for a long shower, that would have left him smelling like a soft lemon cake, before welcoming Gary Barlow into his home.

But of course, he’d forgotten to factor in the giant and very radical series of changes that his day-to-day life has been going through since he’s decided to adopt Nelly. She’s adorable, of course, but she’s also… very messy. And he’s never had a dog before. And it was a rash decision, not one of those he usually ponders for months and months and invests hundreds of pounds in literature about. A rash decision, that came after a rather harsh breakup, and—

The doorbell rings again, and Nelly yaps loudly. Snapping out of it, Taron gets on his feet and quickly runs to the bathroom to throw the dirty cloth in the wash, before dashing back into the living room, inspecting his cleaning job (not too bad, considering), wagging a reprimanding finger at the dog that says _behave_ , and finally walking towards the door. He takes a second to inspect himself in the small, square mirror above his shoe rack and decides that, even if his face is indeed more or less passable, the hoodie definitely has to go. He swiftly shucks it off and hangs it behind one of his coats, out of sight, before taking a very deep breath in and finally opening the door.

“I was beginning to think I had the wrong address,” Gary says, in that comforting Northern drawl of his. He’s wearing a red long-sleeved polo shirt with thin white horizontal stripes, a pair of soft-looking white trousers, and a big smile on his face. He looks every bit as glamorous in his casual attire than he does onstage, even if his hair is longer and uncharacteristically wild. “Hi, Taron, nice to see you.”

“Hey, Gaz, welcome, thanks for coming!” Taron greets him, already feeling himself blushing deeply. He scratches the short hair at his nape and gives Gary an apologetic grin. “Sorry, I just got a bit…”

“Oh, ‘ello, who’s this then?” Gary gently interrupts, just as Nelly peeks her head out from between Taron’s shins.

“...caught up. And yeah, this is the reason,” Taron says, shaking his head and bending down to pick the dog up. “Her name’s Nelly. She’s a rescue. She’s _very_ new here.”

“Let me guess: were you cleaning up her mess, just now?” Gary reaches out a hand for Nelly to sniff, then pets her head. He already looks fond.

“‘Fraid so, yeah,” Taron admits, shrugging.

“Believe me, I know the feeling. Mrs. B talked me into getting a Pomeranian, a few years back, and it’s been a lot of work. Can’t say it’s ever gotten any easier. These little buggers are cute, but they’re like little kids sometimes. Good luck, mate,” Gary chuckles in earnest. He then looks left and right, then back at Taron. “Hey, meant to say: it’s bloody lovely, round ‘ere. Can’t blame you for choosing this place as your hideout spot, instead of _that_ _London_.” ‘That London’. That’s what Northerners call the Smoke. Taron’s always found it terribly endearing, for some reason. As if London was a foreign country. (Which, in some way, it actually is.)

*

The top-secret recording project for which Gary has graciously offered to make the drive ends up being, as Taron had imagined, an absolute blast. This time round, unlike that day at Gary’s place back during the _Eddie_ days, it isn’t accompanied by the dread of very probable failure that had settled into Taron’s heart as soon as Matthew told him he’d have to sing on _Thrill Me_ : no, this time round Taron is strong, confident and competent, what with having years in the studio with Giles Martin under his belt... and yeah, the ego to go with them, too. Perhaps. Maybe. (Definitely.)

When Gary suggested which song they’d record together—admittedly, one that Young-and-Inexperienced Taron would have deemed ‘unattainable’—Post-Rocketman Taron said ‘bring it on’. And on, rather happily, Gary Barlow brought it, which lead to a whole two hours of Taron passionately crooning, getting notes from Gary, incorporating his advice into the next performance, and doing it better and better each time.

“Bloody hell,” Gary finally sighs, taking his headphones off and setting them on the table in front of him. “Well done, Taron. That was a cracker. Can’t wait to send this to Ryno.” He stretches a bit, slightly reclining the office chair he’s sat on, and beams up at Taron, who’s still standing by the mic.

Taron blushes and takes in the praise, letting it wash over him and fully believing that Gary means every word, this time. This time, he’s sure. “Thanks, Gaz. This was so fun. Make me want to do it all over again.”

Gary looks pensive for a second, then raises a signature eyebrow and smirks: a man with a plan.

“Well. I don’t suppose Dawn will be waiting on me for supper, tonight, so… would you maybe want to record a Crooner Session?”

Taron’s heart instantaneously fills with joy. He remembers the regular glee and unmistakable warm feeling he felt every day, during lockdown, when he went on Instagram after 5PM on a weekday and found yet another video of Gary singing along to some absolute tunes with guests. It was one of his favourite things to come out of an otherwise absolutely dreadful time for the world. And now, to be asked to participate? It’s—

“It would be a special one, you know,” Gary continues, possibly sensing in Taron’s silence not reverential and flattered contemplation, but the need for further persuasion. “I don’t usually do these face to face.” He winks, then taps his fingers on his closed laptop and looks expectantly at Taron. 

Taron nods and chuckles, rather exhilarated. This is probably going to be even more fun than what they just did. “It’s a big fat yes from me. Just give me five minutes, going to get a glass of water…”

“...and a brew for Music Dad over ‘ere, if you don’t mind?”

“Absolutely. How d’you take it?”

“Milk, no sugar, please.”

“Haven’t got sugar, just sweetener. If you’re worried about—”

Gary cocks an eyebrow again, in a rather stern way this time, and interrupts him. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that last bit, shall I?” He then breaks into a light-hearted laugh. “No but seriously, Taron: that stuff is _so_ bad for you.”

Taron puts a hand over his mouth at the thought of all the Diet Coke he’s just had delivered with his groceries, then nods in assent and disappears into the kitchen.

*

The words come easy. The pitch, thanks to the couple of hours of active warm-up he’s had while singing the first song they’ve recorded, comes even easier.

They haven’t agreed on which lines to swap. Gary just asked, do you have a song in mind, and Taron replied, almost without thinking, that he wanted to sing _Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me_. 

“Oh, well, in that case,” Gary said, with a huge grin, “you have _got_ to be Elton.”

“Funny, that,” Taron replied, as he was putting his headphones back on. “I’ve always thought myself as more of a George man.”

Gary shook his head, adjusted his own headphones and briefly glanced at the rather precarious camera set-up—Gary’s Canon, on a small tripod, perched up on a stack of books to better frame them—before winking at him, in a way that says _nice one, mate_. They’re not sharing mics, but they might well be. Taron hasn’t been so close to someone since—

“Maybe that’ll be your next Golden Globe, eh?”

“Oh shut up and take it away, Music Dad,” Taron replied hastily, before yet another wave of stupid happiness, caused by Gary’s kind words and what in any other occasion with any other human being he would have labelled as flirting. But not now. Not with him. Surely not.

Gary sings the first verse beautifully, his voice shining bright as the sunny summer day outside, his lows mellow as honey and his highs clear as crystal. Then, even if Elton’s bit isn’t supposed to come until the instrumental break, Taron still dares to enter during the first chorus; he must admit that the result, even if he is by no means an expert in the old backing vocals palaver, is fucking spectacular. He’s so enthralled by the song, the whole process (and, frankly, the look in Gary’s eyes whenever he does manage to nail a harmony) that he completely forgets that they’re on camera.

He remembers, though, once the piano interlude announces that it’s his turn to properly sing. Solo, like he used to do, a thousand years ago, in front of people. 2019 isn’t even that long ago, and yet—

_I can’t find_

_Oh, the right romantic line_

All of a sudden, he’s back.

There (at Abbey Road, recording for Giles and Dex).

There (on set, wearing a Versace shirt and crying over a piano).

And there (at the Greek, in a stripey white suit and a blue shirt, belting out high notes and battling it out with Elton John).

He doesn’t quite know where the rest of the song goes. He closes his eyes, and he’s barely even aware of getting cocky and trying that thing again, that variation that he didn’t rehearse for the show in LA and that he _definitely_ hasn’t done since—that raucous, rock’n’roll rendition of the last _I’d just allow a fragment of your life_ in the song. And, to his utter surprise (but not to his now unmeasurably swollen ego’s), he does it. He manages it. Hells, he fucking _kills_ it. 

*

Gary’s entire face is glowing with what distinctly looks like pride, and Taron has to physically cover his cheeks to shield both himself and Gary from his nearly-31-year-old body yet again betraying how dysfunctionally he’s used to react to praise.

“I think this might be the best one yet,” Gary says, lovingly and rather solemnly.

Taron doesn’t find it in him to diminish that compliment. “Yeah?” he asks, simply. He doesn’t remember ever being this happy, not this year.

“Yeah,” Gary confirms. “This one’s special, mate. I’m saving it for a rainy day.” 

His eyes, Taron considers. His eyes, and the lines at each corner, from where his smile reaches them. His eyes, those lines, and how desperately he would like to kiss him there. This, this and this.

It’s impossible, Taron knows. Happily married for more than twenty years, and this time round there’s a tattoo on his wrist to prove it. A calligraphy _D_ , and a heart underneath. Taron knows the story; everyone knows the story. It’s kind of the same as Colin’s really. And he and Colin never—

*

“Drive safe, alright?”

Gary nods. “Don’t worry.” He points at his small Audi parked in Taron’s driveway. “These things practically drive themselves.”

“Right, of course,” Taron says. Now that Gary is standing on his doorstep saying goodbye, he suddenly realises that the day is over. Like, properly over. The sun is setting and the seagulls are flying over their heads, and soon he’s going to be alone again, the calm silence of his small seaside cottage only broken by occasional barking from Nelly and, as of lately, Bob Dylan.

“Hey, Taron…” Gary starts, at the same time as Taron finally decides to speak again, break the unnecessary tension and banish the melancholy feeling that’s threatening to take over, and says, “Hey, Gary…”

Inevitably, they laugh. Inevitably, Taron blushes.

“Sorry, you first,” Gary graciously says, with a gesture of his hand towards Taron.

“I just meant to say… Thank you. This was really good for me.”

“This was really good, _period_ ,” Gary benevolently corrects him. “You’re an absolute star, Taron. They’re lucky to have you.”

Taron is momentarily confused. “Who is?” His new director? His co-stars? His friends? His family?

“The world, Taron. It’s what we do, you and I: we perform. And we also do it for us, sure, it’s our job and our livelihood and our egos.” He pauses, letting that last word hang in the air between them. He’s self-aware, and that makes him even more attractive, if at all possible. “But we do it for them, really. The fans. All the people out there who rely on us to make their day just a little bit better.”

“I…” Taron starts, but then stops. _I think you do much more than me, in that aspect_ , he was about to say. Gary’s been in the scene way longer than him, after all, and music is a very different, much more comprehensive medium than cinema or television. But he also knows, in his heart of hearts, that it isn’t true. The mind still boggles at the thought, granted, but he’s painfully aware it’s not true that the world would be the same without him. He remembers the heaps of letters he got given by his agent after _Rocketman_ came out. He remembers the fans asking for selfies and telling him that he saved their lives. He remembers the joy, the warmth, the love he felt from those crowds. He misses that. So fucking much.

“Or at least, that’s what I tell myself, whenever I wake up feeling useless,” Gary continues. “That’s what people like us do. We bring smiles on people’s faces. And that’s important, man. Never forget that.”

“I won’t,” Taron replies, simply, feeling a wide grin spread on his face. “You’re right. We do matter.”

“Yes, we bloody do,” Gary says, mirroring his smile. He then pulls out his car key. Taron can feel the spell breaking. “It was lovely to see you, mate. See you soon, I hope?”

“Definitely.” _Stay for dinner_ , he wants to say. _Please, stay._ “I’ll hit you up once I’m back in _London_ , eh?” He barely realises, but he stresses the word a teensy bit, and possibly mimics Gary’s Cheshire accent just a tad. Ever the thespian, gods be good.

Gary rolls his eyes. “London. We love to hate it, but we always go back in the end. Goodbye, Taron.”

“Bye, Gaz. Thank you.”

*

**_September 21, 2020. Taron’s bachelor pad in the old BBC building, White City, London._ **

Taron’s been moping around, mostly half-reading the script for _Tetris_ and chopping up dog treats for Nelly, and he’s bored out of his skull. Shooting doesn’t start for another month and a half. He’s unemployed, lonely, and just _bored_.

Instagram has been a great distraction, lately, and today is no different. He’s developed a sort of routine, even: save a couple of recipes from the NYT Cooking page for future reference, discreetly browse through the pages of his favourite movie star friends and certified hunks, occasionally dropping a heart or a moderately thirsty comment underneath their pics, and mindlessly watching everyone’s Stories, hoping to be entertained. 

When he starts on the latter, he notices that someone seems to be back, after a very long while: Gary Barlow, his summer break off social media officially over, is posting again. And his Stories today are filled with snaps from the past two-three months, detailing what he’s been up to and catching everybody up on where he’s at.

And there, in the midst of colourful holiday snaps and pictures of Negronis, is also Taron himself—hidden behind a sunglasses face emoji. That selfie they took right after recording together, back in August. The happiness on Gary’s face. The caption: “Recorded a movie star”. 

Taron starts typing out a DM before he can overthink it.

_Hey, sir. Lovely to see this one on here x_

**_Had to be a bit cheeky, couldn’t show your face, not yet_ **

_Waiting for the big announcement, of course_

_This is why you’re the adult in this relationship, clearly_

**_Funny, that. It’s what Robbie always tells me !!_ **

Taron chuckles, staring down at his phone, desperately resisting the urge to make a dirty joke. He also really wants to see Gary again, all of a sudden.

But he wouldn’t. He doesn’t know if he should.

He shouldn’t. He won’t.

**_You free for a drink, one of these days? It’s been too long_ **

Well. If he’s not the one doing the asking, he supposes it’s fine, right?

Right?

 _Free as a bird_ , he types out, clutching his phone to his chest. Silly, really, but. Yeah. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I assume this might have flown over a lot of people's heads, but not over mine: the last bit, about Gary's IG Stories, is 100% real. Granted, it is speculation on my part that the dude under the sunglasses emoji is Taron, but all the evidence is there around them.  
> [This](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/post/629855115920261121/monday-morning-freakout-because-my-favourite-man) is the pic that Gary posted. As you can see, we have a framed poster of Taron and Johnny the Gorilla from _Sing_ in the background, as well as a _Rocketman_ book (?) right next to it. I dunno, this still feels extra plausible to me, so I'm choosing to go with this narrative all the way.
> 
> I would also like to stress that Gary's visceral hatred for Diet Coke and everything containing artificial sweeteners is a Thing(TM), he's spoken about that at length in his book and it's become a running joke for me and the lovely person I'm writing this story for.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this Taron POV chapter, it's what I know best and what I love. Next time round, we're back to Barlow. If you want to gather context for the upcoming chapter, I urge you to go take a look at [this epic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826045) that my wonderful co-author and I wrote over the Christmas period. You won't be disappointed, I promise. 
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Love, 
> 
> C xx
> 
> P.S.: I'm manifesting Taron on Crooner Sessions. I want it. I crave it.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you feel like chatting, you can find me on tumblr, I'm [applesfallingfromblondehair](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! x


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